Space Dementia
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Edward muses over the effects of alcohol and the meaning of lovesickness. .:. one-sided Elricest, mostly Ed X Heiderich. .:. rated M for one F-bomb and some sexual stuff. pre-CoS movie. oneshot.


**A/N: Oh, the things that go through my mind while listening to music. I should be shot. XD**

**Pairings: one-sided Elricest, mostly Ed X Heiderich**

**Warnings: um, sexual stuff, but just a handjob, LOL. And drinking; but not illegal drinking, since the drinking age is different in Europe. XD**

**Takes place just before the movie's events. ;D **

**(Of which, by the way, I get angry with; one, because I hate that Heiderich dies! Hatehatehate. And two, because I kinda sucks that Ed and Al don't end up in their own world.)**

**

* * *

**

' _You make me sick_

_Because I adore you so… '_

~Space Dementia, by Muse

* * *

Lovesick.

I never used to know what it meant. I used to think that it was an illness, like when I had the flu as a kid.

I imagined that it must be awful to get lovesick; would your stomach churn nauseously, like the flu, before you vomit? Would your head feel hot and foggy, like with a fever? Would your nose get runny and your throat raw, like a cold?

I never understood. That is, until I fell in love myself.

I learned that, like the flu, your stomach does indeed churn, but it flips with butterflies instead of nausea.

I learned that, like a fever, your face does indeed grow warm, especially in the cheeks, and your thoughts go all fuzzy.

I also learned that lovesickness is nothing like a cold, but you do end up coughing to clear up your throat a lot, mainly due to awkwardness and embarrassment that is self-inflicted.

So yes, I am lovesick. And yes, I finally understand what it truly means.

And do you know what? I fucking _hate _it.

Because my sort of love is sick in more ways than one, the symptoms aside. How, you ask? Well, for starters, the person I'm in love with is my younger sibling. And to make matters worse, he's male.

So there you have it: I'm incestuous and homosexual. As if I didn't have enough problems already, what with having two false limbs and being vertically challenged, and oh, let me see, being an entire world away from my own!

Yeah, I'm pretty furious with life at the moment. And living with Heiderich only extends my fury to new heights because he wears the same face and a similar haircut to my little brother's (or, at least, how I remember him. I still don't know if I succeeded in getting his mind, body, and soul back together, but I have hope).

"Alfons," I say, stepping away from the door and severing my train of thought as I let him in. He forgot his key before leaving for work this morning. Again. And people call _me_ irresponsible! "How was your day?"

"Tiresome," the white-blond says with a weak smile. He coughs into his shoulder a few times before laying his hand over his chest and breathing in deeply. "How was yours?" he asks as he shrugs off his coat and hangs it up.

"Boring," I say with a shrug, pretending that his coughing doesn't worry me half as much as it actually does. "But I did do something today: I went grocery shopping to get a few of the things we were lacking." I sigh. "But things are so expensive with this inflation, so I had to go cheap. Sorry, but it looks like we're eating a lot of bratwurst again."

Heiderich smiles. "No, that's fine; I figured as much." He moves to the kitchen and yanks open the icebox. A pale eyebrow rises. "You didn't buy any milk?"

I scowl. "You know that I hate that revolting stuff! – Plus, it's getting damn pricey. So I figured, you know, if you want it, you can buy it yourself some other time."

He chuckles. "I should have known." He steps over to me, too close, and kisses me on the cheek. "You're adorably predictable, Ed."

I flush minutely and turn away. "Yeah, well." And I return to my bedroom to read.

That's another thing: Alfons Heiderich is in love with me. He has his own lovesickness, and while part of me loves him in return, I knew deep down that's only because it's so very easy for my brain to pretend that he's Al, _my _Al from Amestris. I miss my brother so much that it physically aches, and every time Alfons touches me, I'm reminded guiltily that he's not the Alphonse I want him to be.

Heiderich said when we met that I reminded him of a "friend" he had who moved to London. I shuddered, then; because I knew all too well who he was referring to, and I knew by the way he paused on the word 'friend' that he loved the man who looked like me.

Eddward, the me of this world, is somebody whose body I had borrowed when I first crossed through The Gate, over to this world, on the day that I died. I had been in London, England, with my father when an air raid occurred. A zeppelin had fallen on me/Eddward, and when I awoke, I was back in the ballroom in the underground city beneath Central.

I still feel guilty about getting that Edd killed. If only I could have run before that blimp crashed to the ground on top of us – _us_, because I could still hear him, there, in his body. He was in the backseat while I drove, and I felt like I steered myself to my own death, murdering my twin. And in a way, I had. It hurts, knowing that I had accidentally ended the life of my parallel self, but it hurts even worse knowing that Eddward had most likely once been Heiderich's lover.

Imagine that: in this parallel world to my own, an Ed and an Al that wear the faces of my brother and I had been born unrelated, and ended up being in love. It's a funny (and all too possible) notion.

Sighing, I set my book down and scrub my scalp to erase my thoughts. I mutter to myself that I need to stop being alone all the time; it's making me introverted.

Suddenly, Alfons bursts into the room, a tray in his hands. It has a bottle and a glass full of amber liquid with three ice cubes balanced on it; Bourbon on the rocks. It's been my poison, my drink of choice, for half a year now, ever since I turned eighteen and decided to give in to my depression and the temporary freedom from it that alcohol brings.

Bourbon is also Heiderich's way of getting me to loosen up and be affectionate towards him, something he discovered when I drank the first time around. It always works, too; with alcohol in my system, especially the strong stuff like Bourbon, I no longer care about my morals. I start to blur the lines when I'm buzzed or drunk; because when I'm in such a state, I'm happy and horny, and all of my guilt and haunting past are forgotten.

I slug down two nearly full glasses, and by this time, the liquor is coursing throughout my body, burning and hazy.

I smile lazily. I never could hold my liquor; not with missing limbs and such a thin, toned body with hardly an ounce of fat. My stunted height does not help, either.

"Al," I slur, and stumble backward from my desk to sit beside him on the bed. "You gotta stop lettin' me drink like this. It's bad fer m' health, you know," I tease.

He wraps his arms around me, one across the back of my shoulders, and the other around the front of my waist. "You'll be fine," he says softly, "I'll make sure of it." And he leans down to kiss me full of the mouth.

I let him. He looks so much like how I pictured Al would be, had he grown up; he's so handsome. His hair and eyes might be the wrong color, but in the low lamp lighting and with my fuzzy head, I barely can tell the difference between light and honey blond, blue and greyish-gold.

I raise my right hand to grip the back of his head as I deepen the kiss, my tongue tickling his lips. His breath is hot on my face as it brushes past my alcohol-flushed cheeks.

I moan is name – _their_ name, really, but it sounds the same, so he doesn't know that I mean my brother during times like this – and move to straddle his lap. Heiderich's hands fall to my hips, and I push him back onto my bed.

"Edward…" he gasps, and I don't stop. I don't even think. The Bourbon has done a professional job of clouding my brain, and I don't mind it in the least.

I suckle at his throat, kiss his collarbone, and slip the buttons of his shirt from their slots. My hands move down his chest, and he sighs as he arches up into my touch. Our pelvises bump as he does so, and he grunts out a moan between clenched teeth.

I smirk. He loves me; only I can make him act this way. I take pride in this little fact.

I tease one o his nipples with my false hand while inching lower with my real one. I kiss his mouth hungrily, and close my eyes.

Alfons Heiderich. Alphonse Elric. Bourbon blurs the lines and makes them the same person, this bed the same as any bed, this room the same as any room, and this world my own. When I drink, I have space dementia: I know not where I am or whom I'm with, and it suits me just fine. I'm content in ignorant bliss.

Ha, I love being drunk.

My hand has found my lover's member, twitching and stiff just for me. I smile around a break in our kissing as I trail my fingers down the front of Alfons's slacks.

Al moans, and starts to pant, silently begging. I comply with his wishes as I attack his throat again. I can hear him breathing harshly in my ears; a sweet sound.

I undo his trousers and slide them down his thighs languidly. I can taste his sweat. My hand fumbles under his underwear, teasing. He makes a curt whimpering sound that is similar to part of my name. I smile, my lips still at his throat.

I lean down and lick one of his nipples as my fingers curve around his member. He tenses beneath me. He's shaking. And I realize hazily that I'm shaking, too, where I'm balanced on my right hand against the mattress.

I mumble onto his skin as I start pumping my hand, "Why d'you do this to me, Al?"

Through his gasping, he stuttering in reply, "I – I think you have it backwards, Ed."

"Hmm," I hum drunkenly. "Maybe so." The other way around, huh? I _do_ do things to him, don't I? I should feel bad about it, I know, but I can't muster up the emotion as I torture him with pleasure, my hand gliding up and down and swirling around the tip.

His hands come up from my hips to grip my arms at the biceps, his nails digging into the skin of one arm and digging, unfeeling, into the false one. I smile as I kiss him again, loving the taste of him and the lingering flavor of Bourbon on my tongue.

He jerks in my grasp, and wet warmth drips down my hand. I withdraw it, wiping it off on my pant leg. Alfons pulls me down into an embrace. His kisses my cheek softly. "I love you," he whispers.

A piece of my still-working brain knows that I should say it back to him. But another, most distant piece knows that I shouldn't. But in my alcohol-influenced mind, I can't remember why either of those choices matter.

"Mm," I answer at length, my eyes closed and sleepy. I run one hand through his hair. "I know."

It's not the response he wanted, but he takes it anyhow. He rolls me onto my side and lays me down in front of him. He holds me, then, like a heated blanket, from behind. It's comfortable, and I like it.

One of Heiderich's hands drift down to lift up my shirt, untucking it from under my belt. His skin grazes my skin, hand on torso, and I mumble my approval of the sensation. His hand roams my chest, touching and rubbing here and there, twirling around one nipple, then down my abs to my waistline. He leans me onto him to free his other hand, and uses both to undo my belt and button and zipper.

"Hm? What?" I slur, one of my eyes opening to look at him. Returning the favor, huh? Al is always so kind, so thoughtful…

He leans be back onto my side against my bed, and I can feel his hand under my head, a substitute pillow, while the other dives into my pants. I hiss and nibble on my lip as his hand caresses me. I hadn't even realized that I was hard, but apparently he had. He presses his body up against mine, a perfect fit.

Al's hand grips me tightly, and I moan gruffly. He slides his hand up and down, and I feel my body react by rolling my hips in time with his hand motions. His lips press against the back of my neck, the air being exhaled from his nose feeling cool on my heating skin.

"A-Alphonse," I gasp, sigh, and moan, all at once. He doesn't say anything in response, simply continues to give me pleasure. I smile lopsidedly. Equivalent exchange.

When it's my turn to come, I curl inwards on my self, and Alphonse – Alfons – I'm not sure anymore, but he holds me tenderly, and I almost feel like crying for reasons I can't place.

His hand disappears, and I hear him touch it to his lips instinctively before thinking twice about it and wiping it elsewhere. I feel utterly exhausted now, sweat beading on my forehead coolly and my heart trying to calm down from its race against my member. I pant a little, then sigh.

I roll onto my back to lie side by side with my lover. He holds my left hand with his right in between us. I close my tired eyes. Then, regrettably, it slips out of my mouth: "I love you."

And in the morning, when the space dementia melts away, I know that he's going to remind me of what I said, and I might just end up crying.


End file.
